


we were down to make mistakes

by inkwells



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:01:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23208169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkwells/pseuds/inkwells
Summary: allison and lydia take a summer roadtrip, vowing to leave behind beacon hills and all things supernatural. of course, nothing is ever that simple. enter: sam and dean winchester.
Relationships: Allison Argent/Sam Winchester
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	we were down to make mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> just a heads up: allison and lydia are both 18 here for reasons, but they're still in high school, so if that makes you icky with sam/allison then feel free to tune out. 
> 
> also, i kinda just do what i want with monster lore and time. sam is 22 here because why not. this takes place right after the end of s2, though i can't say things will stay 100% canon as the story continues (some major events in teen wolf, for obvious reasons, will not happen at all in this story). i've tried to cross-reference creature behaviors accurately according to both shows, but i probably won't always get it right. bear with me on that.

She’s taking a break from Beacon Hills.

After losing Scott, her mother, Kate, everyone… she needs time. Allison Argent is strong, but she’s not unbreakable.

“I think I’m going to road trip for awhile,” she tells her father at the kitchen table. “Take a few weeks and see the country.”

He chokes on his toast mid-bite, spewing bits of bread back onto his plate. She waits for him to collect himself.

“What? Allison, you’ve just barely turned 18.”

“And?”  


“You’re too young to be traveling by yourself. No way.”

She thinks on this, glass of orange juice in hand. “I’ll invite Lydia. Between us, we have enough money to cover the trip.”

He watches her very closely then. She sees something like disappointment linger in the curve of his mouth, the downward slant of his eyebrows. Just like everybody else, his gaze is accusatory, still trying to puzzle out exactly what she is. A killer? A teenager? A girl? A threat?

Allison meets his gaze with a raised eyebrow, mouth set in a firm line. This isn’t a request for approval—only a courtesy heads-up. She’ll leave even if he says no. She’s in no mood to play the protective/rebel game with him today. Maybe he sees that resolve in her eyes, or maybe he just knows her well enough. Finally, he nods.

“Okay. If that’s what you want.”

“It’s what I want,” she says, the words only feeling like half a lie.

* * *

“And _why_ would _I_ want to stay in dirty motel rooms and eat fast food for three weeks?” Lydia questions from the corner of the dressing room.

Allison smiles a little, touches her tongue to her bottom lip as she observes herself in the mirror. “Because you love me.”

As expected, Lydia scoffs half-heartedly, observing Allison’s form before shaking her head in disapproval.

The fastest way to Lydia Martin’s heart: shopping. And more specifically, giving her free rein of your wardrobe. If there was one thing Lydia liked more than looking good, it was having a well-dressed group of followers to trail behind her.

After obediently stripping off her current dress and trying on another, Allison earned herself a satisfied, lipstick-glossy smile.

“Better. Less frilly,” Lydia says. “And I _suppose_ I could be persuaded to join you. But only because I really, really love you.”

The warmth in her voice touches somewhere cold inside Allison, frozen over since she buried her mother, and she reaches over to hug Lydia tightly before she can stop herself.

They stand there for a long time, cheeks buried in shoulders, Lydia’s hands forming a tight circle around her waist. It feels like the closest thing to hope Allison’s had in awhile. When they pull away from each other, something soft lingers in Lydia’s expression; they’re quiet for a long time after.

* * *

Allison’s new car, a modest commodity but notorious gas-guzzler, doesn’t hold a card to Lydia’s beloved Prius. Begrudgingly, Lydia agrees to taking her car, but threatens certain death if it ends up with so much as a _scratch_.

They set out two days after Lydia turns 18, cruising through side streets and cursing at traffic-choked highways. It takes them a few hours to make it out of California and into Arizona, the sunset fast approaching on the horizon. When they pass the border, finally, Allison smiles to herself and closes her eyes. Freedom must taste something like the dusty, humid air of dry desert, she thinks.

* * *

And she’s not hunting. Really. 

Even if her father hadn’t made her promise to swear off that life, Allison wouldn’t hunt. Once, it’d been a goal, a mission, a purpose—kill things that would do harm otherwise. That was how she justified it, at least. Made it something heroic instead of insidious.

But Allison was not a hero. She knows that now. She had been a tool for Gerard to play with, to utilize at the drop of a hat to get what he wanted. At the end of the day, Allison became exactly what she feared—the enemy. The bad guy.

So, no. She’s not hunting. Hunting means heading back down a road that has been closed off for the Argents. Hunting means letting fear and anger rule her life again. Allison Argent would never, _ever_ be that person again—that was a promise.

* * *

Still. She packs her bow and arrows in the trunk, keeps a butterfly knife in the dashboard. Not as an omen, but a precaution; supernatural creatures weren’t the only threats in the world.

That’s how she ends up with a blade pressed to a man’s throat, her knee inches away from his groin, a snarl caught on her mouth. He shakes beneath her hands.

“You do _not_ touch her. Ever,” Allison says, voice low and trembling with anger. “Or any girl for that matter.”

Too frightened to speak, he nods curtly to avoid being cut, body jerking. She keeps him there a moment before stepping back, lets him scurry away in panic.

Lydia watches him go, seemingly unperturbed, fixing the ruffle he left in her skirt when he grabbed her ass. “That was surprisingly satisfying to watch.”

Allison doesn’t want to admit it, but it shakes her—that deep, visceral violence within herself that comes to play in moments of weakness. There was no thought in her action, no analysis over _should I hurt him?_ or _is this right?_

The moment he touched Lydia, she acted.

No matter how many miles they put between themselves and Beacon Hills, Allison Argent feels dangerous. And no longer is that a reassurance.

That night, they walk back to their dingy motel room in silence. Allison goes straight to bed, curling up above the sheets with her shoes hanging off her heels, a question hanging off her tongue. _What am I?_

* * *

The driving is mindless, which Allison likes. Lydia’s driving shifts are much shorter in comparison, but only by Allison’s request; Allison likes the control of steering, braking, accelerating, the hum of the engine beneath her fingertips. And Lydia likes to keep conversation more when she’s well-rested and in the passenger seat, filling Allison’s mind with talk of monuments and rock formations instead of her mother’s unforgiving voice.

(It’s nice, too, that Lydia doesn’t play the _I’m stupid and what’s two plus two again?_ game. After Jackson, they don’t have secrets—no masks, no reason to hide.)

The motels aren’t first class, but they’re less seedy than Allison first imagined, meaning the showers have a decent amount of hot water and the sheets are relatively stain-free.

This keeps Lydia’s complaints at bay, though she’s none-too-happy with their regular choice of greasy diners and shitty room service.

Allison doesn’t mind it. The complaining, or the whining. It’s almost half-hearted at this point—as if Lydia does it out of reflex, keeping routine for the sake of normalcy.

They don’t talk about Beacon Hills. Allison’s mother is not mentioned once, nor are Scott, Stiles, and Jackson. A surprising feat, maybe, considering how both of them seem entirely preoccupied by what lies behind them. What they’ll have to return to eventually.

Lydia’s perceptive as hell, though, and Allison can see she’s walking carefully around the damage, poking only where the wounds no longer bleed. 

After the first week, they end up somewhere in Nebraska. Lydia, unsurprisingly, is not impressed by the rolling hills and the endless farms, but eventually they get too tired to continue and hole up somewhere. The motel is a bit older than most, but the owner is kind, and they get settled easily as they talk over their plans for the next few days.

Had she known what their _true_ plans would turn out to be, Allison would have kept driving.

* * *

“I’m bored,” Lydia sighs, plopping down onto her side of the bed.

Allison checks her phone. “It’s 10 o’clock, Lydia. And we’re in Nebraska. What were you expecting to do, tip a cow?”

“There has to be _something_ to do around here. What do farmers do for fun?” Lydia ponders that for a moment before smiling and snapping her fingers together. “Bars. Everyone likes to drink, right?”

“ _Bars_?” Allison says, raising an eyebrow. “With what IDs?”

“C’mon,” Lydia replies. “We’re pretty girls with enough confidence to be 25. We’re good business.”

“That sounds foolproof.”

“Let’s just try. Please?” she says, bottom lip tipping out dangerously.

They stare at each other for a moment, weighing their arguments, sizing up the other’s resolve. Allison breaks first, closing her eyes to exhale deeply. Lydia claps her hands together in glee.

“Fine, okay,” Allison says. “But when they kick us out for looking like the total _jailbait_ that we are, don’t blame me.”

Lydia acts as if she doesn’t even hear, rushing to her suitcase. She spends only an hour pampering them both and trying on outfits until she’s satisfied—a record-breaking feat.

Allison drives them around, moving closer and closer to the city as rows of soy and wheat pass them by. It takes them nearly 30 minutes to reach somewhere that Lydia deems adequate—a bumbling pub dubbed The Roadhouse. Fitting.

The parking lot hums with activity as they pull into it, roiling with bikers and low-brow cowboy hats. A few whistles follow them as they exit the car. Lydia scoffs beside her, unperturbed. Allison swallows down her uneasiness.

“This will be a piece of cake.”

True to her word, no one tries to stop them at the door. In fact, two men scramble to open it for them, pushing at each other as the two girls slide by. Sometimes Allison forgets how easy it is to manipulate people with the right amount of lipstick and a push-up bra.

She walks inside warily, eyes scanning the room with a calculation that feels a bit too instinctive for her own liking. To their right is a small bar, manned by a blonde girl who looks not much older than them. She’s pretty, and unsmiling; when she spots them, she gives a friendly wave and invites them to order a drink.

“Everything’s fine,” Lydia says in a quiet voice from beside her, sensing Allison’s tension. “It’s Nebraska, babe. Werewolves would be bored to death here.”

With a dry laugh, Allison blinks and shakes her head, lets Lydia pull her to the bar without resistance. Fun. They’re trying to have fun. That’s the whole point of this.

Lydia orders them two shots right off the bat, shooting Allison a smug grin as she downs one with ease.

At the offered drink, Allison shakes her head. “Someone has to drive us back.”

Lydia shrugs and finishes the other, leaving both glasses on the counter.

“Well, I’m going to go play pool until a nice country boy tries to show me how to _correctly_ hit the ball,” Lydia says with a wink. Allison laughs. “You coming?”

“I’m gonna get a water. Observe the scene, and all that.”

“Try not to think too much. It’s not a good look on you.” Raising an eyebrow pointedly, Lydia pats Allison’s hand before heading across the room.

Vowing to keep a close eye on Lydia, Allison orders her water and sips slowly, still scanning the room. Lydia’s already acquired a few admirers, but most of the bar’s customers congregate near the dartboard closer to the entrance, laughing and chatting loudly among themselves. The atmosphere is warm, saddled with the weight of body heat and Nebraska’s summer night air. She tries to relax with the rest of the crowd, riding the wave of laughter and friendly conversation, but Allison just can’t shake the feeling that something’s not right.

“Not often a pair of girls like you end up around here,” the blonde behind the counter remarks.

Allison turns, swallowing a half-chewed ice cube. She considers her reply. “We’re traveling around the country. Stopping by places when we feel like it, I guess.”

“What brought you here?”

“I don’t know,” Allison says. She glances around once more. “Just something about it.”

The blonde chuckles, leaning her elbows on the counter. “That’s promising. I’m Jo, by the way.”

“Allison,” she offers. “My friend’s name is Lydia.”

“Good to meet you,” Jo says, friendly. “Where are you guys from?”

She sits on that one maybe a moment too long. Jo cocks an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re an escaped convict or something.”

Allison laughs a little, trying to hide her hesitation. “No, no, nothing like that. I’ve just, uh, moved around a lot in the past, so I never know what I should say when someone asks me.”

Suspicion clears from Jo’s eyes, and the girl nods her head, a gentle smile beginning to grow. “I get it. A lotta the people we meet around here are like that—don’t always have a place to call home.”

Allison thinks back to her dad alone in Beacon Hills. She’d really thought when they first moved there that they’d found the _place_ —the place you really belong. The place you set up roots in and built memories around. Scott, Beacon Hills High, Stiles, Lydia—that had been home.

Now, she wasn’t sure where she belonged.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Jo says. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Quickly, Allison jerks her head in dissent, meeting Jo’s eyes. “No, no, don’t be sorry. It’s nothing.”

“It didn’t look like nothing,” Jo replies. Her face softens. “Look, if you’re in any kind of trouble, you sho—”

Jo cuts off suddenly, eyes jerking to the front door of the bar. Startled, Allison turns to see two men walk in. One looms in a gangly sort of way, hair shaggy, face distorted in some kind of distress. The other is shorter, more rugged, frown hard and angry on his face. Both of them walk right in Jo’s direction.

“I’m, uh, I’m sorry. If you need anything else, ask for Ellen,” Jo says quickly, dismissive.

And then she’s gone, jutting her chin at the door behind the bar and disappearing behind it. The two men follow her, gone as quickly as they came, and Allison blinks. Blinks again.

Gulping down the rest of her water, family issues subsequently reburied and repressed, Allison hops off her stool to return to Lydia, the uneasiness from before beginning to make her antsy.

Lydia’s red hair shines beneath the yellow lights, body lithe and graceful as she bends over the pool table. A few bikers watch in rapt attention as she shoots, her shot perfectly timed so that two striped balls fall into their respective pockets. 

Lydia straightens, meets the eyes of her fans with a sweet smile. “Beginner’s luck, I think.”

When she sees Allison, she grins even wider, more genuine. “Glad to see you join the party.”

Allison offers a weak smile in return. The scene with Jo and those two guys had left Allison itchy, restless—her gut protesting her inaction. Around the room, Allison surveys the crowd once again, trying to pinpoint the spot of her distress.

Lydia, easily picking up on Allison’s mood, nudge her friend with her elbow. “Everything good?”

After another quick pan over, Allison met Lydia’s eyes, still smiling. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”

No need to panic Lydia if her instincts are wrong. Trying to be more convincing in her reassurance, Allison plucks a pool stick from the wall and shuffles close to Lydia’s side.

As they begin to play, Lydia easily falling back into flirtation mode, a small voice asks Allison when her instincts have _ever_ been wrong. That cold rush of fear, the adrenaline and restlessness of being hunted. She knows those feelings like the back of her hand—knows them because she’s been hunted more times than she can count now. As Lydia pockets another ball, Allison’s hand reaches for the knife in her pocket, fingers twitching at the handle—

_No._ No hunting. No losing control.

Quickly, she pulls her hand back and sets in on pool table, sweat beading on her forehead. Determined not to ruin their night, Allison focuses back on the game, shifting her attention between Lydia and their onlookers. Fun. They were going to have fun, goddammit.

After a few rounds, Lydia’s good mood is just too infectious to ignore, keeping the worst of Allison’s nerves at bay. Without fail, Allison’s eyes start to stray back to the bar every few minutes, mindlessly, searching for reassurance. But the longer Jo stayed out of sight, the more restless Allison grew. No matter Lydia’s distractions, she couldn't let it go.

Had she trusted herself, Allison would’ve noticed the shadow they’d collected over the last few days—a pale man who sat eerily in the corner of the bar, his eyes moving over them endlessly whenever they faced away. Had she trusted herself, Allison would’ve recognized that she was not just itchy with unease, but itching with the desire to _run_. They were being hunted.

But Allison didn’t trust herself. Doesn’t. Hasn’t since she almost made herself a murderer. And so instead of pushing Lydia out of the bar, convincing her that there was reason to go, Allison stayed.

Stupid mistake.

The two of them are trading techniques, bickering over the trajectory of the pool stick as Allison bends over to make her move, when the first person screams. 

Mid-shot, Allison startles, striking past the cue ball. Her head jerks up in shock to find the source, but all that greets is her chaos. People suddenly begin swarming toward the exits, the screams echoing off each other, when a blur of movement passes right in front of them.

Lydia reacts in the space between seconds, scrambling to Allison’s side, saying something lost in the panic. As the sounds of fear and desperation begin to pile onto one another, Allison looks to the ground, watches blood spill across the wood floor in front of them. But it doesn’t connect; a body limp, his throat a gory mess, the red—it all blurs together as Lydia grabs Allison’s hand, moving toward the front door with the rest of the crowd.

But someone stops them. Another body moving, pale, teeth sharp in its mouth. She recognizes its face so clearly that she opens her mouth to speak, to call it back into her imagination. It growls something that makes Lydia scream, but Allison doesn’t move. Or maybe she—

“RUN!” a deep voice yells from their left—their far left. Allison doesn’t register it. Can’t seem to register anything. It’s all red, burning, the shock of pale face that she instantly recognizes as enemy, predator, and as Lydia’s nails dig into her arm, she thinks—

_No_.

The knife ends up in her hand from her pocket, and she slashes forward, pushing Lydia behind her. The body hisses, throws its hand out toward Allison’s chest, and she flies backward, fast, too fast, hearing the smack of herself against the wall before she feels it.

Everything gets blurry. Another shriek, and she trembles—“ _Lydia_!”

The world turns upside-down and goes black, leaving Allison to the darkness.

* * *

“Everything’s gonna be okay,” a man says.

“He _threw_ her! Against a wall! How is that okay?”

“The impact didn’t do much damage. She might have a mild concussion, some bruises, but she’ll live.”

A heavy pause. “That thing… _bit_ me. Does that—does that mean I’m…?”

“You have to drink their blood to become one of them,” another voice pops up, more gruff than its predecessor. “A bite might hurt like a bitch, but it won’t turn you. And we stopped that bastard before he could do any real damage.”

Slowly, Allison claws her way out of the murkiness, trying to pinpoint the identity of the voices. One is achingly familiar, gentle and feminine. _Lydia_.

The thought causes her to gasp, sucking in air fast, panicked as her eyes blink open.

“Hey! Hey, it’s okay, you’re safe. You’re alright,” that deep voice says. She can feel a hand at her shoulder, firm, and she jerks away, scrambling to sit up properly.

“Allison! Oh my god, I’m so glad you’re okay.”

A flop of red hair and white blouse flies into her vision, and the relief chokes her when Lydia hugs her close—forces back the panic and slows her racing heart. _She’s okay, she’s okay._

But as the shock fades, the pain sets in, and Allison groans, body sore and protesting Lydia’s assault. Lydia jumps back as quickly as she came, biting her lip.

“Sorry,” Lydia says, eyes soft. Allison shakes her head.

“It’s okay. I just—“ Her eyes suddenly zero in on the bandage around Lydia’s neck, and the two pinpricks of blood starting to bleed through the soft cotton.

“What _happened_?”

Lydia bites her lip, crossing her arms over her chest. “I'm okay. I just got bit by a... thing."

"A what?"

“A vampire,” the gruff voice pipes up. 

Allison jerks her head to her left, startled. She'd almost forgotten they weren't alone.

The two men she’d seen before in the bar stand side-by-side, watching her carefully.

“A vampire?” Allison says. It sounds a bit like a joke, but judging by Lydia’s wound and the looks on their faces, she presumes it’s not.

“You got it, sweetheart,” the same man answers, and her eyes narrow.

“Who the hell are you two?”

Shaggy-haired boy steps forward, presumably taking over as Good Cop. “I’m Sam. Sam Winchester. That’s my brother Dean.”

The name is like a splash of cold water. Allison visibly jerks, mouth agape, her memory filling in gaps as she tries to comprehend the words _vampire_ and _bite_ and _Winchester_ together.

“My dad…” Allison starts, glancing at Lydia. “He knew them. Knows them. I don’t know. They’re hunters.”

“Excuse me?” the shorter one—Dean—says.

“I know,” Lydia quips, ignoring the interruption. “I mean, I guessed as much that they're hunters. After the vampire hit you and jumped on me, they didn’t waste much time taking him down.”

“But vampires? My dad never said anything when he mentioned the Winchesters.”

“Is it that far-fetched? Your ex is a werewolf; my ex is a kanima. And the thing that attacked us was definitely not human.” Lydia pauses, shrugging. “Your dad’s kept secrets from us before.”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Dean says again. “Just who the hell are _you_ guys?”

Allison turns her gaze back to the boys. Her last name seems to be both a curse and a gift; if these guys are the same Winchesters her father told her about, she’s sure they’ll recognize it. But could it be turned against her? Against her dad?

Slowly, Allison adjusts, mattress squeaking beneath her as she swallows and grasps her bruised torso. “My name is Allison Argent. My father’s Chris Argent. We’re… we’re hunters, too. Used to be, anyway.”

Recognition immediately washes over Sam’s face. It takes Dean a moment longer, but he comes to, gaze turning from hostile to appraising as he glances her over again, this time with a glint in his eye.

“Huh,” he grunts.

“Your dad is a legend,” Sam says, sounding awe-filled. “We’ve heard stories.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” she grumbles.

“What are you doing all the way out here? Alone?” Dean says. He sound suspicious again, lips pursed and shoulder leaning against the wall. She’s finding it hard to like him.

“Road trip,” Allison says simply.

“Well, you’re not in California anymore, Dorothy.”

“Are you always such a dick?” she says.

Sam laughs suddenly, a noise so unexpected that Allison almost smiles. It’s a nice sound. Dean glares at his brother, but Sam’s smile doesn’t drop.

“You get used to him,” Sam tells her, and she decides she doesn’t mind Sam at all.

At that moment, the door opens from behind them. The bartender, Jo, walks in sure-footed and grim. 

“The fanger was alone, but not by accident.”

“Whaddya mean?” Dean says, all business. Beside Allison, Lydia draws closer.

“It was hunting for dinner. The girls, specifically,” she remarks, gesturing at them two.

“Wasn’t very good at it, either,” a woman adds as she walks in behind Jo. 

She’s older, hair dark with eyes to match. Her stance, defensive and confident, reminds Allison of her dad. Another hunter, probably.

Jo turns to Allison with a half-smile. “You’re awake,” she says.

With a nod, Allison gives Jo a wary once-over. “Yeah.”

“You’re lucky to be alive, attacking a vamp like that,” the older woman states, not unkindly. “I’m Ellen. Jo’s mother. I own the bar.”

Sam tilts his head a little, glancing between Ellen and Allison. “Ever heard of the Argents?”

Ellen blinks. “‘Course. Everyone’s heard of ‘em, what with Gerard Argent practically driving every werewolf on the West Coast to extinction.”

“Looks like we stumbled on one of his own,” Dean says, jerking his thumb in Allison’s direction.

Jo’s eyes widen in her direction. “You’re a hunter?”

“Not anymore,” Allison says, grimacing. The words sound hollow even to her.

“We’re on this trip for fun,” Lydia adds. “Not anything… supernatural.”

Jo and Ellen exchange a brief look before Ellen gives them a sympathizing half-smile. “Sorry to tell you, honey, but it looks the supernatural stumbled onto _you_.”

“We gathered that,” Lydia says, gesturing to the bite on her neck.

“I mean that attack wasn’t random. It was hunting you both. For awhile now, if my detective work is right.”

The words send a chill up Allison’s spine, bruises throbbing hot in time with her uneasy heartbeat. She’d known—felt its presence watching them in the bar, at the motel. God, she was so stupid. How could she have ignored it?

Lydia’s voice comes out quiet, the tiniest bit afraid: “Why?”

“Not sure. Maybe it knows your family. Maybe it just saw two pretty girls by themselves and wanted a taste.”

Allison thinks on this for a moment, frowns and shakes her head. “If it was tracking us, why did it attack? In public?”

Sam manages to look guilty, glancing at the floor and scuffing it with his toe. “Its nest is a good while away from here. I don’t think it knew it had stumbled into hunter’s territory until it saw Dean and I. It must’ve recognized us and lost composure, freaked itself out. Looks like it tried to grab you guys and run, but got caught up in the feeding frenzy. Couldn’t help taking an appetizer first.”

“So you were already hunting it,” Allison says, filling in the gaps. “That’s why you looked so upset when you walked in. You knew it was in the bar.”

“You were watchin’ us?” Dean says. Allison rolls her eyes.

“Well, yeah. You’re not exactly subtle.”

Dean scoffs, and it’s just— _really_. She _really_ wants to punch him.

“What does this mean, then?” Lydia says. She’s steeled herself now, shock passed and resolve setting in. Her arms cross over her chest as she cocks a hip. “There’s a whole nest of those things out there who want to eat us?”

“Now that we’ve killed one of their own, they’ll be out for blood,” Jo says. She taps the gun strapped to her hip absentmindedly. “I don’t know about California, but on this side of the country, vampires pride themselves on their packs. Most of 'em have been picked off over the last decade or so. They don’t take kindly to their numbers dropping.”

“Then why hunt us at all? Seems like a lot of trouble for two people,” Allison says. She ignores the slow throb working its way up her ribs, pounding to the beat of her heart.

“They can get… obsessed with their prey,” Sam says. “The one we killed was probably young—new vampires are more possessive when it comes to their meals. Willing to go the extra mile when they get caught in the bloodlust. Especially if it knew what you are, Allison.”

“Hunters and fangers? Don’t mix. Lotta bad blood between the two,” Dean says, before rolling his eyes. “No pun intended.”

Allison’s ears start to ring again, hands shaking at her sides. How far had she run from Beacon Hills? And here it was, banging on her front door, demanding to be let in.

Angry, suddenly, and frustrated, Allison stands, ignoring the flash of pain at her side. “Listen, I’m _out_ of all this. My dad and I, we don’t do this anymore.”

“I’m not sure you have a choice,” Ellen says. “Those things are out for blood. Your blood.”

“And ours,” Sam adds. He gives her a sad half-smile.

Jo steps forward. “We need numbers if we’re going to go after a nest. Competent fighters. And if you really _are_ an Argent, we could use you.” 

A hand touches her elbow, and Allison looks to Lydia, caught between the burning desire to _run_ and the swelling instinct to _hunt_ what hurts others. She’s not sure what shows on her face, but Lydia just sighs.

“We can’t let them kill anyone else,” Lydia says, tired, like Allison’s already made up her mind and she’s just going along with it. “And we’re definitely not going to let them kill _us_.”

The pit of her stomach swoops, flies to the ground in a strange mix of fury and fear. It’s the same feeling she had when she held Erica hostage at the point of her arrow, when she stabbed Isaac in the back. She’d promised never to go back there. Redemption had been a long, slow crawl to the finish line, and still, Allison wasn’t sure she’d reached it. 

God, this was probably an awful idea. Her father would insist Allison call him right now—at the very least for backup, and at the very most, for a lecture on why this could ruin her all over again.

Yet, as Allison glances over at the Winchesters, at Jo and Ellen, she sees not rage or fear—but strength. The kind of strength she had once thought ran in her family, unpolluted of evil. The kind of strength she craves so badly. She thinks, maybe, just maybe, things could be different this time.

Her hands don’t stop shaking when she speaks, but her voice rings clear, crisp, as she tells them, “I’ll help you. But I’ll need some things first.”

* * *

Ellen stays behind. They leave her and Lydia at the motel, armed with a machete, a gun, and Dean’s burner phone. Lydia protests briefly before Allison begs her, _begs_ her to stay behind. The tremble in her voice sounds desperate, even to Allison, and she knows that Lydia’s thinking back to Jackson.

Eventually Lydia agrees, but she threatens to track them all down if Allison doesn’t come back. Sam nods and promises the impossible:

“She’ll make it back. We all will. ’S what we do.”

Allison simply hugs Lydia so tight it hurts, bruised ribs screaming with the effort, before climbing into Dean’s car. She waits until the motel lights disappear over the hill before she turns to face ahead.

“So, how do you kill them?” Allison asks, gluing her eyes to the road.

“Take off the head,” Dean says. She doesn’t notice the whiteness of his knuckles on the wheel. “That’s the only way.”

“Anything slow it down?”

“Pain, sometimes, if they’re young. Old fangers won’t so much as blink at an arrow to the knee.” She ignores the look he gives to the bow in her lap.

“They’re fast, too,” Jo pipes up. “Ridiculously strong.”

“I noticed,” Allison says wryly. “So how do you expect us to kill a whole nest of them?”

“With this.” Dean pulls out some ancient-looking pistol from the center console, touch gentle as he cradles it in his right hand. “ _This_ will kill a vamp in one shot.”

“We’ll fend them off while Dean takes them out,” Sam says. “We’ve dealt with this kind of thing before. Just follow our lead.”

Not surprisingly, Allison isn’t reassured.

* * *

They make it out alive. Somehow.

There are only five vampires in the nest they track down, which ends up being a hell of a lot less than the Winchesters anticipated. Still, it’s a bloody fight; Sam gets a good few scratches to his chest, and Jo does something bad to her ankle that ends with her limping to the car afterwards.

Dean’s a good shot, but so is Allison. She nails a few arrows to the eye, slowing the vamps down considerably as Dean finishes them off. Turns out she likes him a lot more when he’s not running his mouth.

The ride back is filled with excited chatter—the kind that always comes after a huge adrenaline rush. Dean snips a bit at Sam over his wounds, though Sam laughs it off easily, like he’s heard the same spiel a thousand times before. Jo, tired and nursing her bad ankle, simply throws Dean a few good barbs when she feels like it. Allison makes a point of laughing at those.

They’re almost back to the hotel when Sam suddenly turns to her. “You’re a damn good fighter, Argent. Would’ve been a lot messier out there without you.”

“Allison,” she says, quickly. “You can call me Allison. Everyone calls my dad Argent.”

Dean scoffs and chimes in. “Been wondering. How’s your daddy so cool with you raiding vampire nests all the way out in no man’s land? You’re a good fighter, but you’re what—seventeen? Eighteen? Little young to be going on hunter expeditions all by yourself.”

He stops just as they roll into the motel parking lot. In the distance, Allison can see Lydia and Ellen bursting through the front door of the motel, making their way quickly toward the car.

Allison turns to Dean, hand on the door handle, and replies, “My dad trusts me to take care of myself. And like I said before, we don’t hunt anymore. This? This was a one time thing.”

As she goes to open the car door to greet Lydia, to reassure her that she’s alive, a hand on her shoulder stops her.

“The world needs people like you, Allison,” Sam says, voice quiet but firm. “Fighters. The good guys.”

Shoving the door open, Allison throws back, “I’m not so sure who the good guys are anymore.” She doesn't wait to see if Sam replies.

* * *

School starts again, which means everything goes to shit.

Allison and Lydia make it back to Beacon Hills alive and well after another week of road tripping. At Allison’s insistence, they leave the vampire hunting tryst—and the Winchesters—decidedly behind them, speaking not a word of it at their return.

And though everything is far from being okay, and there’s still a whole lot of damage to deal with between her and her father, and Scott, and the other werewolves—Allison is feeling alright. More in control. Lydia seems to be holding her own, too, and together they’re healing.

So, of course, a goddamn deer has to run _headfirst_ into their windshield, and birds just _have_ to fly through goddamn windows, and the world—well, the world just seems to be going straight to hell.

They find out about the alphas, too late, and seeing Erica dead reminds Allison of all the bad things she’s done, the pain she’s caused. Somehow, somewhere, she swears to do better. To right all the wrongs she left behind in the wake of Gerard and Kate Argent.

After realizing how outnumbered they are, Allison considers calling up the Winchesters. Just for a second. But their first—and presumably last—run-in had warned Allison that trouble followed the Winchesters around just as much as it followed Allison and her friends. Inviting them to her home turf would mean inviting more problems.

Besides, Allison wasn’t too keen on the Winchesters ever meeting her father. Or her friends. God only knew what they’d say to get in her trouble.

Trouble, however, didn’t need an invite to make an appearance.

She spots them on a Friday afternoon in the hallway of her school, looking comically and annoyingly out of place. Allison resists the urge to throw her books at them as she slows pace, catching their eye. It’s late, so the school is mostly empty, but a few straggling students give the Winchesters odd looks as they bumble through the hallway. God, do they even _try_ to blend in?

Grabbing the two by their arms, no introduction needed, Allison pulls them through the hall with all the force she can muster.

Shutting the door behind her as she pushes them into an empty classroom, she hisses, “ _What_ are you two doing here?”

“Heard some serious shit was going down, and we thought you could use a hand,” Dean says, eyebrow raised. “And we were right.”

“I don’t need your help,” she snaps.

“Allison. We’re sorry for barging in, but Alphas? They’re not something to mess around with,” Sam says. Always the softer approach with him. “We wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Raising a hand to her forehead, Allison sighs, kneading out an approaching headache. “Listen, I appreciate you guys coming to help me out. And I’m fully aware that Alphas are dangerous, I’ve been dealing with them since August. But I—we—just… _it’s handled_. You guys can’t be here.”

Dean grunts, arms crossed over chest. “And why’s that, sweetheart?”

She scowls at him. “I don’t need to explain myself.”

“I think you maybe you do.”

“Is it enough to say that you two create as many problems as you solve?”

“Hey, we _saved your life_ , Argent,” Dean snaps. “Or are you forgetting you would’ve been vampire lunch meat if we didn’t step in?”

“Dean!” Sam cuts in, sending his brother a cold look. After a moment, he turns back to Allison, gaze softening. “Is it your dad?”

“It’s…” Again, words seem to fail her, wrapped around her tongue in infuriating knots. She sighs, a scowl still on her face. “Yeah. My dad doesn’t… know, about all of this. The Alphas, the vampires. He’d kill me if he knew I was hunting again.”

“And what’s he gonna say if you actually get killed?” Dean says.

“I can take care of myself,” Allison says, for what seems like the hundredth time. “And I can take care of my own. You guys being here attracts more attention than we need.”

“Hey, we’re good at being lowkey. We do it all the time.” Sam’s eyebrows furrow slightly as hunches over a little, making himself shorter, and she shakes her head in exasperation.

“Why do I find that hard to believe?”

“Look,” Dean says, stepping forward. “The Alphas are causing a bigger shitstorm than you know. _Everything’s_ running toward Beacon Hills right now for the show, and you’re gonna need more than a ragtag team of teen wolves to save your ass.”

She knows he’s right. She just really, _really_ wants to punch Dean Winchester.

**Author's Note:**

> so...... this has been sitting in my unfinished drafts folder since 2017. i have no idea where the idea even came from, or why i was so deadset on writing it, but here we are. i figured with the downtime i have right now and my newfound writing motivation, i would post what i've edited and feel good about it. if people dig it (which honestly, i have no idea if people are even into fic for this pairing/crossover), that's awesome. if not, i'll probably start pulling out some of my other random drafts and seeing where that goes. quarantine = unlimited time to mess around on ao3


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